


Falling Down (1/1)

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years post-series, Spike is haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Down (1/1)

**Author's Note:**

> For the October nekid numbers at nekid_spike and using the angst_bingo prompt "haunting.". Many thanks to silk_labyrinth, my wonderful beta!

_**Falling Down (1/1)**_  
 **Title** : Falling Down (1/1)  
 **Pairing:** Spike/Wesley  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** A few year post-series, Spike is haunted.  
 **Author's Notes:** For the October nekid numbers at nekid_spike and using the angst_bingo prompt "haunting.". Many thanks to silk_labyrinth, my wonderful beta!

  


**  
FALLING DOWN   
**

Son House played quietly over the sound system as Spike finished mopping the last of the rooms. “Ought to hire someone to do this,” he muttered to himself, but the truth was he’d grown to enjoy the mundane tasks of shutting down and cleaning up. It was as if he could wipe the slate clean and start fresh each morning. When everything was tidied to his satisfaction he pocketed the night’s earnings, closed the cash register, and shut down the computer. The music abruptly stopped, but Spike was still humming softly as he locked the door behind him.

The predawn air was still chilly but the sky was clear, and he reckoned the day would be on the warm side for the season. He didn’t mind; by now, relentlessly good weather felt as homelike to him as fog and rain. As he turned onto Euston Street the morning traffic had already begun, lorries rumbling by and taxis queuing between St. Pancras and King’s Cross, food smells drifting from the coffee shops and fast food restaurants. He liked this neighborhood. It wasn’t an expected one for his sort of establishment but he’d found the space relatively cheap and transport was easy. Besides, he’d lived not very far away, back when he’d lived. Some evenings he even walked by his old house and reminisced pleasantly, the painful memories now just bittersweet.

When he’d first opened the club two years earlier he had slept there as well, partly to save money and partly for the sake of convenience. But eventually he’d found himself longing for a place that was his own, just a few rooms where strangers never tread and where all the thoughts and associations were his alone. He’d leased a place ten minutes’ walk from the club. The flat was below ground level and slightly given to damp, but it was certainly nicer than a crypt or abandoned factory. At least he had all the hot running water he wanted and a kitchenette where he could nuke his blood or brew a cuppa now and then. The club had been doing well, so perhaps he’d consider moving up in the near future. For now he was content.

As he turned down his own street, Spike waved at the grocer who ran the little shop at the corner. The bloke was just setting up for the morning, sorting fruit into plastic baskets for display outside the shop. Occasionally Spike bought an item or two when he fancied a bit of human food.

Just a block from his flat, Spike suddenly felt as if he were being watched. He put his hand near the inside pocket where he kept a stake and spun about, but there was nobody there except for atwenty-something girl on a bicycle. She sped by him without more than a glance, and Spike shrugged and continued homeward.

Usually when Spike got home he had a pint or so of blood before crawling into bed. But this morning he felt unsettled for no reason he could name, and he chased the blood with a half bottle of whiskey. Not Jack. He’d been buying decent stuff lately, like the 15-year-old Bushmill’s he used to nick from the poof. When the bottle was empty he considered opening another, but instead he paced his flat restlessly, picking up books and putting them down unread, until he was thoroughly angry with himself. “Ponce,” he said out loud. He stripped and got into bed, and instead of tossing off as he often did he lay there, listening to the old building’s creaks and groans.

***

He woke well before sunset and puttered about, drinking blood and then tea, watching a bit of telly, taking a long bath instead of a shower. He had two employees who arrived at the club in the late afternoon and accepted deliveries while making things ready for the evening. Once the club opened they provided rather more intimate services to the customers, while Spike generally staffed the bar and ensured that order was kept.

As he went about his small tasks this afternoon, he kept having that odd feeling of being watched, and he swore at himself every time he looked over his shoulder or investigated a mysterious sound that turned out to be a creak of the floor joists above or someone out on the pavement rolling by on a skateboard. He didn’t understand what had got into him. A bit too much solitude of late perhaps; he vowed to take a more active role at the club tonight.

But when the club opened, it proved to be a very slow evening. A pudgy, middle-aged gent came in. He was a regular customer and Spike had caught glimpses of him on the news now and then but hadn’t bothered to learn the bloke’s name. The man gave Spike a weak smile. “Is Mistress Katrina available?”

“Sure, mate. She’ll meet you in Room Three.” Spike didn’t add that Mistress Katrina was currently up the street, no doubt finishing her usual soup and coffee at Pret a Manger.

The customer’s smile widened. He pulled some bills from his wallet—like most of the club’s customers, he preferred to pay in cash—and headed down the short hallway to his room. He’d likely have to wait about twenty minutes, but that was all right. Anticipation made the pleasure greater, and Katrina could punish him for his impatience.

The other employee present tonight, Nigel, stuck his head out of Room One. “Not for me then?” Nigel was well over six feet tall and resembled a muscular bear; dark hairs curled everywhere on him save for the top of his head, which was bald and shiny. He was going to university to be a dentist.

“Nah. One of Katrina’s,” Spike replied.

“No worries. There’s a good match on now and I’ve an appointment at eight. That MP with the comb-over? Always leaves a good tip, he does.” Nigel ducked back into One, returning to the wall-hung plasma television that ran sporting events when he was free, and porn when he was working.

Spike fiddled with the sound system for a while, finally settling on John Coltrane. Jazz seemed an appropriate soundtrack for his unsettled mind tonight. He decided that perhaps it would be a good time to order some new equipment, so he sat down at the computer and began browsing the Fetters website. He was deciding between a black rubber hood and a red one, and pondering whether a gibbet cage was worth eight hundred pounds, when the door opened again.

“Hullo, love. Regular’s in Three.”

Katrina grinned at him. “Which one?”

“It’ll be a surprise.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. Katrina was nearly as tall as Spike—taller when she laced on the spike-heeled boots she fancied—and rounded to the point of plumpness. When she stuffed herself into a leather corset, her tits were a wondrous sight and, as she liked to point out, they were all hers. She had curly reddish hair and an easy smile and a four-year-old son who stayed with his grandmother at night. Katrina sashayed back to the dressing room, swinging her hips as she passed Spike.

Katrina and Nigel were Spike’s steadiest employees, although a half dozen other men and women came in a few nights a week, or when needed for parties and the like. Spike himself occasionally took on a client as well, but unlike Katrina and Nigel he was too bored with the games to make a truly popular dom.

Katrina emerged from the dressing room just as Spike was finishing off his order. Even Spike’s jaded todger stirred at the sight of her all made up in leather and latex and lace. He gave her a friendly leer and she patted his face fondly as she walked by. 

Spike remained somewhat at odds. He moved behind the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey, but the burn wasn’t comforting tonight and the idea of getting pissed didn’t appeal. He put the bottle away again and simply stood there, drumming his fingers on the polished wood of the bar, twitching his back and shoulders as if something itched.

Five more customers came in over the course of the night, including Nigel’s MP. Nigel and Katrina took care of all except one bloke, a well-bred youth in his early twenties who wanted Spike to pretend to be his headmaster while he administered a caning. Bloody boring, but Spike complied and the bloke looked happy enough when he was finished.

And then the club was quiet again. Spike eventually sent his employees home but, since he had nowhere else to be anyway, he remained in the club. He played solitaire on the computer and smoked and hummed along quietly with the music.

At three in the morning, he decided to give it up for the night. Perhaps he’d go for a stroll. Sometimes he liked to ride the Underground to Westminster. The London Eye would be dark and still and the busloads of gaping tourists gone for the night, and he could simply stand at the railing and watch the Thames roll by. He would think about how nobody could stop water and time from flowing, and about how both could wear away at the toughest material, smoothing all the rough edges away.

He shut down the computer and wiped down the bar. He was putting away his glass, his back to the room, when he heard a small sound: a polite noise like a cleared throat. He spun about.

“Hello, Spike.”

The glass fell from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the tile floor. Spike paid it no mind. “W-Wesley?”

Although the light in the club was dim, Spike’s sharp eyes could make out the man’s features quite well. He had a bit of beard stubble and his hair was slightly ruffled. He wore a tan jacket and a dark shirt made darker by the stain at his stomach.He glanced down at himself and sighed. “Sorry. It takes such an effort to become visible that sometimes I forget … If it distresses you I can change my appearance.”

Spike took a deep breath. “Wesley?” he repeated.

“You must be surprised: you’re using my Christian name.”

“But … but you’re dead!”

The corner of Wesley’s mouth twitched. “So are you.” When Spike simply gaped, Wesley came a step closer. “Amusing as it is to be on the other end of a surprise appearance, I wonder if we could get past that bit and move on. It’s quite exhausting to remain perceptible, you know.”

Spike wanted to back away but didn’t. “You! You’ve been bloody haunting me!”

Wesley shrugged. “I apologize. I wanted to have some notion of your … routine before we chatted.”

“My routine?” Spike was beginning to regain his equilibrium but his voice was still a half-octave higher than he intended.

“Shall we … perhaps we could sit down. And you could pour yourself a drink.”

A drink sounded like an excellent idea. Spike didn’t bother with a glass this time; he simply uncapped the bottle and climbed onto one of the stools beside the bar. Wesley seemed to be eyeing the booze longingly so Spike held it out. “Fancy a taste?”

“I’ve learnt to touch things but regretfully I cannot taste them.”

Spike gave him a sympathetic glance and took a long slug of his own. “Know how you feel, mate.”

“Yes. I expect you do.”

Wesley waited while Spike took several more swallows. Finally, Spike raised an eyebrow. “I reckon you’re here for a purpose.”

“I am. Although it’s been good to catch a glimpse of London as well. I haven’t been here in years. Not all of my memories of this city are pleasant, to be sure, but some are.”

“Yeah,” Spike replied.

“Is that why you returned here yourself?”

“Dunno. Couldn’t … Didn’t fancy California any longer and nowhere else seemed to be calling me.”

Wesley nodded once and his eyes strayed to the other side of the club, where Spike had arranged several plush armchairs. “Sometimes one requires a comfortable place after … after trauma.”

“Being killed’s trauma enough. Have _you_ been in a comfortable place?”

“Quite,” Wesley replied with a smile. “It wasn’t at all what I’d expected but it was very nice.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was sent.” Wes stood and meandered down to the end of the bar. His eyes were fixed on a framed antique map of London, and he forgot to maintain his physical presence for a moment so that he walked right through the mop bucket without even noticing. Spike wondered if he’d looked that odd himself when he first appeared at Wolfram & Hart.

Spike gulped more liquor. “Sent?”

Wesley turned about and walked back, this time remembering to step around the bucket. He stopped next to Spike and looked earnestly into Spike’s eyes. “Your services are needed.”

“Bloody _hell_!” Spike slammed the bottle onto the bar top with a heavy thud. “My services! I went through trials for a soul so I could be a better man. I burned under Sunnydale to save the bloody world. And I fought that stupid sodding battle because His Broodiness fancied another notch on his atonement belt. I’ve served enough!”

“You have,” Wes agreed gently. “But that isn’t the point, I’m afraid. This isn’t about what’s fair or what anyone deserves—it’s about what’s necessary. You’re necessary. The ranks of heroes are sadly depleted since—”

“Was there, wasn’t I?” snarled Spike. He had another long swallow. “You bought it early, but I saw the others die. Charlie-Boy and Blue and Peach—” His throat closed, cutting off his speech, and he glared at the floor.

Closing the bit of space between them, Wes said, “I know. I expect that the survivor’s lot is the most difficult of all.” His tone grew firm. “But it can’t be helped. They’re all gone and the Slayers are occupied with other matters right now. You’re needed.”

“Sod off!” Spike growled. He lurched to his feet and pushed through the ghost, which gave him an odd shivery sensation. He stomped to the cupboard, flung the door open, and withdrew a broom and dustpan. Pointedly turning his back to Wes, he swept up the broken glass, then dumped it into the dustbin behind the bar.

Wesley waited patiently. Bloody spook had nothing else to do, apparently. But when Spike reached for the not-quite-empty bottle, Wes surprised him by grabbing it himself. 

“Neat trick,” Spike muttered.

“Took me some time to master, but as I said, I can touch things when I wish to.”

“Go … go touch yourself then,” Spike said. He turned and surveyed the shelves, considering which bottle to open next.

“You’re not happy, Spike.”

Spike spun about in fury. “I was! Was bleeding ecstatic until you showed your spectral face.”

“I’ve been watching you, remember?” Wesley carefully set the bottle down. “You have a nice club and a nice flat and a quiet little existence. Many men would envy you. But it’s not _you_.” Before Spike could respond, Wes shook his head. “I only knew you for a few months, although I must admit I’d heard a great deal about you before that. In any case, one thing I am quite certain of is that you are a courageous man—”

“ ’M not a man at all, remember, Watcher?” Spike spat the last word with particular venom.

“Precisely. You are a demon. And perhaps you were never concerned with atonement, as was Angel, but you always wanted a fight, didn’t you? Souled or not, you never did anything the easy way. It was the struggle that made your existence worthwhile.”

Spike’s jaw worked. He wanted to deny the bastard’s words, but he was a crap liar at best. Instead, he came around the end of the bar, grabbed the mop bucket, and returned it to the cupboard as well.

Wes continued speaking. “You’ve made yourself a … well, a sanctuary here. Understandable under the circumstances. A safe place to return to—”

“Don’t need your psychoanalysis, wanker.” Spike pointed a finger at him. “I met old Sigmund and he was a bigger twat than you are. I don’t fancy a return to the womb.”

“No, just to Mother England,” Wes said with a smile. There was no cruelty in his face and no pity, just open honesty. “Spike, you came back home. But it’s not really home anymore, is it? It hasn’t been for a long time. And you’ve closed yourself off from real contact with others. I know that hurts you—it’s always been patently obvious that you can’t manage being alone. And you run a club in which men pay to get punished, because in reality you’re punishing yourself. Punishing yourself for surviving when others did not.”

“Told you to skip the psychobabble! Now bugger off.” Spike walked across the room to the exit and turned off the lights. And then he simply stood there in the darkness, feeling faintly ridiculous and knowing the ghost would only follow him wherever he went.

“I propose a challenge,” came Wesley’s calm voice.

Spike clicked the lights back on and turned around. “You want to fight me?” he asked incredulously.

Wes chuckled. “Hardly. I wouldn’t stand a chance against you if I were corporeal, and you literally can’t lay a finger on me if I’m not. No, I was thinking of something else.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Dueling Sudoku?”

“Come with me. Give me … oh, sixty minutes to break down the barriers you’ve so carefully erected inside yourself. If I’m successful, you come with me. If not, I’ll not trouble you again.”

“Don’t have any bloody barriers.”

Wes gave him a deeply skeptical look and Spike sighed. “Break down the barriers how?” Spike asked.

Wesley simply gestured toward the back of the club, toward the rooms.

For a long moment, Spike had no words with which to reply. And then he laughed hoarsely. “Still a bent little bugger, aren’t you? Back from the afterlife just for a piece of my tight arse?”

“Your nether regions are not the reason why I am here,” Wes said firmly. Then his mouth twitched at the corners. “Mind you, I’m not saying I won’t enjoy.”

Spike was going to refuse. Only … well, Wesley’s offer was a bit intriguing. Spike had always wondered what the bloke was hiding behind those sharp blue eyes. And if this was the only way to be rid of him, at least the prospect offered a bit of amusement for the rest of the evening.

Wordlessly, Spike strode across the floor and toward Room Two.

Room Two had black walls and a black floor and even a black ceiling. There were several locked cupboards full of toys, a padded bench, and manacles hanging from the ceiling and walls. An ebony-stained St. Andrew’s cross was mounted near one corner and a small sink had been installed near it. The only light came from an unshaded overhead bulb. All in all, the room wasn’t as complicated as some Spike had seen, but it had enough details to satisfy clients’ dungeon fantasies.

Wesley didn’t waste time admiring the décor. As soon as he was inside he shut the door and looked at Spike. The ghost seemed to be standing taller, his back rod-straight. “Strip,” he ordered.

Spike grinned. “Knew you’d be hot for a peek at the goods.”

“Now,” Wes said coolly, not smiling back.

Spike shrugged off his duster and then bent to unlace and remove his boots. His shirts came next and finally his jeans, and then he stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

“Tidy this mess,” Wes said, waving disdainfully at the scattered clothing.

After a brief pause, Spike complied. He hung the coat on a cupboard knob, pushed the boots near the door, and folded his clothing and placed it on the bench. When he turned to face Wesley again, the ghost looked him up and down, slowly and appraisingly. Spike was surprised to feel his cock begin to rise to attention. It had been ages since anyone had looked at him like that—since anyone had truly looked at him at all, really.

Wesley’s neutral expression didn’t change but Spike thought he caught a flash of heat in those pale eyes. “Wash that rubbish from your hair,” Wesley said.

This time Spike paused a bit longer, but when Wes frowned slightly Spike turned and walked to the sink. He stuck his head under the tap—deliberately waving his arse a bit to give the ghost a show—and used pomegranate-scented liquid soap as makeshift shampoo. After rinsing, he grabbed a fluffy white towel from the shelf under the sink and used it to rub his hair dry. A glint of amusement shone in Wesley’s eyes when Spike hung the towel neatly on a hook instead of tossing it onto the floor.

“Well?” Spike demanded.

Wesley motioned him forward with a single crooked finger, then stopped him when they were very close. “Good boy,” Wes purred throatily, and damned if Spike’s cock didn’t bob with eagerness.

Wes reached out with his left hand and Spike jumped a bit when the palm settled on his chest, cool and smooth. “I told you I’ve learnt to touch,” Wes said.

“So you have,” replied Spike, shivering slightly as Wes traced the planes of his chest and belly. 

Wes’s other hand moved down Spike’s back to settle on the curve of his buttocks. “Good boy,” he repeated. When he took his hands away, Spike had to swallow a whimper. Perhaps Wesley noticed, because he frowned sternly. “Come here.”

Spike followed him to the padded bench and watched as the ghost sat down. Very primly, really, knees together and back still straight. “Kneel,” Wes ordered, pointing to the spot in front of him. “Legs apart, arms folded behind your back.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“Must I gag you?”

Spike rolled his eyes but closed his mouth, and he dropped to his knees and arranged himself as ordered. The floor was bloody hard and cold; Spike found himself envying Wes the padding on the bench. His envy changed to peevishness when Wes simply sat there, staring at him as if Spike were a statue in a gallery. Neither of them failed to notice, however, that Spike’s erection didn’t flag.

Just when Spike was beginning to wonder if he was going to spend the entire hour like that Wesley shifted a bit. “Stand,” he said, and when Spike complied, he added, “Turn about. Slowly.”

Spike turned—twice, in fact—so that he felt like a bloody music box ballerina. But before he could begin the third revolution Wes stopped him with a firm hand on Spike’s hip. Wes’s other hand rose to weigh Spike’s bollocks and then caress his shaft. Spike hissed with pleasure and they both watched as a droplet of liquid appeared at the tip of his cock and flowed slowly down the glans. “Very nice,” said Wes, and the praise sent a flash of pleasure down Spike’s spine. 

Wes continued to stroke Spike’s cock, slowly and deliberately. Sometimes he rubbed the ball of his thumb over the crown and sometimes he gave a bit of a twist to the base. If Spike moved his hips even a bit or reached up with one of his hands, Wesley would _tsk_ at him and stop his movements. Soon—much sooner than Spike would have expected—it was all he could do to keep his knees from giving out and when Wesley pressed into his frenulum, Spike climaxed with a shocked cry.

“Oh,” Wesley said, looking at the mess on his hand disapprovingly. “I don’t recall giving you permission to do that.”

“ ’M sorry,” Spike mumbled, although he was anything but.

Wesley shook his head. “Kneel.” When Spike obeyed, Wes held out his sticky hand. “Clean it.”

Although the ghost didn’t specify how Spike was to perform this task, Spike reckoned he knew. He stuck out his tongue and began to lick at his own spend. Wes held his hand very steady and Spike’s cock, which hadn’t really gone soft to begin with, was soon harder than ever.

Despite his ownership of the club, Spike had never been a particular fan of dominance games. Oh, he didn’t mind a bit of fighting with his fucking—and Dru, Angelus, and Buffy had been pleased to provide both—but the paddles and the leather and the whips and chains had always seemed too contrived for his taste. Give him real violence or none at all, he reckoned.

But Wes hadn’t lifted a harsh hand to him yet. Hadn’t even raised his voice. Despite Spike's denial his barriers existed, but they proved not particularly strong. They began to crumble as Spike realized he liked having Wes order him about. Perhaps he even _needed_ to be ordered about. It was as if the entire world had rested on his shoulders since the day he won his soul and now, in this room with a ghost, Spike could finally give up his burden—for sixty minutes at least.

“Stand up,” Wesley said when his hand was clean. Spike couldn’t help but notice that Wes had a bulge in his trousers and, although Spike knew from personal experience that spectral beings could get hard, it was gratifying to know this one was hard for him. He wondered if Wes meant to do something about it. Would ghostly semen have a taste? How would it feel to be buggered by someone who wasn’t entirely solid?

“Bend over my knees,” Wesley ordered.

Spike blinked at him for a moment.

“The longer you delay, the more severe your punishment will be,” said Wes.

“Do … do you fancy a paddle?” Spike asked and pretended he hadn’t stammered. “I’ve several in that cupboard and—”

“No. My hand will do quite nicely.”

Spike would have flushed with shame had he been able, but still he draped himself almost eagerly over Wesley’s lap. Wes shifted and readjusted him a bit, making certain that Spike’s cock wouldn’t gain any friction against him. Wes’s jeans felt smooth and soft and perfectly real under Spike’s legs and chest, and the ghost’s lungs moved in and out although no air was exchanged.

“Hands behind your back,” Wesley ordered crisply. Spike clasped his hands behind him, slightly above waist level, and then flinched a bit when Wesley touched him. But this touch was a gentle one, a smoothing of the skin on his lower back and arse and upper thighs. It was pleasant even though the hand was as cold as Spike’s own.

And then, with no warning save for a slight shift in posture, Wesley brought his palm down very hard on Spike’s left cheek. The sound of the slap seemed deafening in the small room, and then there was another and another and another. Spike’s bottom grew heated and the pain began to build. He bit at his lip to keep from crying out and he tried his best not to wriggle his hips, not to try to find some pressure for his cock or to press backward to meet the swinging palm. But the onslaught continued, hard and fast, and all of Spike’s being seemed to focus on his stinging arse and aching cock. His fingernails dug into his palms, drawing blood, as he struggled to remain still.

But then, again with no warning, Wes stopped hitting him. Instead, his hand began to soothe again over tender flesh.

Spike’s untouched cock jerked and spasmed as he came again, and at the same time wracking sobs escaped his lungs.

Taking Spike with him, Wesley slid to the floor and gathered the vampire in his arms. Spike let go of the last of his dignity and laid his face against Wesley’s soft shirt and cried. He cried for the friends and loved ones he’d lost. He cried for every innocent he’d slaughtered, every human he’d failed to save. And he cried for himself, alone and lonely and drifting without family or home.

The ghost didn’t say anything. He simply held Spike and stroked his bare back.

Eventually the deluge tapered off. Spike pulled back a bit, sniffling, and wiped his hand across his eyes. “You’ve demon snot on your shirt,” he said shakily.

“Can’t be any worse than the blood that’s already there.”

Spike knew he should extricate himself from Wesley’s lap, that he should wash his face and put on his kit and go home. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave that cold embrace, and Wes didn’t seem in any hurry to let him go.

“ ’M a bloody ponce,” Spike said miserably.

“You’re a hero and a survivor who just felt his barriers fall.”

“I can’t … You see what I’m like, Wes. I can’t take on your task. I’m too sodding weak.”

“There’s nothing weak about admitting your grief,” Wesley said in the tone of a man who knew what he was talking about. “You _can_ do this, Spike. And when you feel yourself weaken, when you must give up control for a time until you find yourself again, I shall be there with you.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “You’d give up the afterlife to do this for me?”

“To do this _with_ you, yes.” One hand slid down to cup Spike’s sore bum. “Although I must admit there are certain benefits as well.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Spike truly laughed. “Knew you were a randy bugger, even after death.”

“Repeated deaths haven’t stopped you from enjoying life’s carnal pleasures. Why should just one stop me?”

Spike smiled at him and managed to stand. To his surprise, his legs weren’t wobbly. He was sticky and his bum hurt and his hair was curling ridiculously, but he felt … good. He felt strong.

He held a hand out to Wesley, unsure whether a ghost might need help rising, but Wes grinned and grasped his hand and got to his feet.

“D’you reckon it’s worth keeping the club?” Spike asked. “I could put Katrina in charge of it for a bit.”

Wesley looked about, almost as if he’d forgotten where they were. “Yes, I think so. A hero deserves his leisure time now and then.”

“And someone to share it with.”

“Precisely.”

Spike pulled on his clothing—very gingerly when he got to his jeans—and led Wesley out of Room Two and into the club’s main room. Spike gave the club a long look then nodded, satisfied. “Right then. Where to?”

“How’s your Turkish?”

Spike made a rocking gesture with his hand and answered, “Şöyle böyle.” And with a grin, he reached for the door.

 _  
~~~fin~~~   
_

  
  


 

 


End file.
